When through his "copy" timidly he spells,
Thrusting his fingers knee-deep in the cells,
And draws the type forth, looking, when 'tis done,
In each one's face, to see if that's the one;
When, raising them and holding them aloof,
Ere putting them to most outrageous proof,
He drops the whole into a shapeless "pi,"
And looks at them forlornly, as they lie,
Little he knows, amid his small turmoils,
The nature of those things, 'mid which he toils!